“The kind that doesn’t belong on the ice.”
Enver studies my face for a long minute. Christ, I wish I could read his thoughts.
Or then again, maybe I don’t.
“All right,” he says finally. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to figure out how to put your personal shit aside and work with Christensen. Because I can’t afford to have my starting goalie falling apart every time he sees his coach.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Barnes. Either you find a way to make this work, or I start looking at other options.”
My stomach drops. Other options. Like Liam Parker, the backup goalie who’s been waiting for his chance to start. Like trade possibilities that could send me somewhere else. Like the end of my career in Oakland.
I nod. “I will, sir.”
“Good.” He starts walking toward his car again. “Figure it out, Barnes. Fast.”
He gets in and drives away, leaving me alone in the parking garage with the ultimatum tightening around my neck.
Figure it out or lose everything I’ve worked for.
The problem is, I have no idea how to figure anything out when the source of my problems hovers over me every day as a constant reminder of everything I’m trying not to think about.
I drop into the driver’s seat with a sigh. I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The face staring back is someone I barely recognize - hollow-eyed, exhausted, defeated.
Four years ago, I was a rising star with unlimited potential. Now I’m sitting in a parking garage wondering if my career isover because I can’t stop thinking about a man who walked out on me without a word.
How the hell do I come back fromthat?
SIX
zane
The emailfrom Agent Morrison sits in my inbox like a ticking time bomb.
Need progress report. Operation timeline accelerating. Syndicate activity increasing in Oakland area. Contact expected within two weeks.
Two weeks to gather intelligence on an organization that took years to infiltrate. To build a case that could take down a multi-million dollar sports betting ring. To do all of this while maintaining a coaching cover that’s about as stable as a sand castle facing a fucking tsunami.
Oh, and to somehow help a goalie whose career I’m wrecking just by breathing the same air as him.
No pressure.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling of the no-frills hotel room that’s been home for the past week. The walls are taupe, the carpet is taupe, even the goddamn curtains are taupe.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sunrise Manor. Another update about my father that I’m not sure I want to read.
Mr. Christensen, your father had a better day today. He remembered your name during lunch and asked if you were coming to visit soon. - Sarah
He remembered my name. Asked if I was coming to visit. Which means he’s having one of his clear days, the kind where the fog lifts just enough for him to realize his son hasn’t been around for months.
The kind of day where he probably wonders if I’m dead or just don’t give a shit about him anymore.
I shoot off a response.
Thanks. I plan to make a trip out soon. Please let him know.
Another lie. But what else can I say? That I can’t visit because dangerous mafia thugs might follow me there? That I’m working undercover for the FBI and any contact with him could put him in danger? That I’m a coward who’s been using his safety as an excuse to avoid watching him forget who I am?
